Shakespeare in the Park is turning 50 this year, and its new production of “As You Like It” is a great gift to itself — and us.
Something special is happening here: The parts may not all be great, but the sum is simply wonderful. Best of all, it’s a perfect fit for the Delacorte Theater, to the point that you can’t tell where the stage ends and Central Park begins.
No wonder, since a good chunk of “As You Like It” takes place in a forest. The trees from John Lee Beatty’s set are almost indistinguishable from the park’s, and it’s easy to believe we’ve been beamed into the action.
Those friendly woods are a haven for Rosalind (Lily Rabe) and her cousin, Celia (Renee Elise Goldsberry), on the lam after being banished by Celia’s father, the usurper Duke Frederick (Andre Braugher). Tagging along is the court jester, Touchstone (Oliver Platt).
To shake their pursuers, the women disguise themselves — Celia as a shepherdess and Rosalind as a young man. Too bad Thelma and Louise didn’t think of that one.
Needless to say, Rosalind’s new get-up puts a twist on her flirtation with Orlando (David Furr) — a dashing lad despite costume designer Jane Greenwood’s spectacularly ill-fitting pants. Didn’t they have mirrors in the American South of the 1840s, where the action has been transposed?
And has it been set there for any other reason than that it’s fun — and a fine excuse to commission a bluegrass score from Steve Martin? Yes, that Steve Martin, although sadly he isn’t in the onstage band.
Music and scenery aside, director Daniel Sullivan’s main asset is Rabe, a great Portia in his popular staging of “The Merchant of Venice” two years ago.
Her Rosalind is a feisty, lovable mix of smarts and spontaneity. The glee that flashes on her face after a shepherd calls her drag alter ego “sir” is priceless. And it’s rare to see a performer so obviously delight in being onstage — which works well for the part, since Rabe’s joy in performing echoes Rosalind’s.
Stephen Spinella offers a very funny spin on the Debbie Downer known as Jaques, who here isn’t so much melancholy as a little prissy and pretentious. And Platt hasn’t been better in years: He doesn’t oversell the jokes, instead looking as if he stumbled onto them.
When the show concludes — with a hoedown, of course — you realize there’s no better place to be on a New York summer night.